


Small Mercies

by obfuscatress



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), SPECTRE (2015), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Bond does Bond things, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Mallory practises bureaucratic sadism, Moneypenny runs the whole show, Q takes no one’s shit, alternate timeline & first meeting, and Tanner just tries to prevent murder, defenestration because why not?, is banter romance a thing? because this exactly that, tiny!Q
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-16
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-14 04:41:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5729878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obfuscatress/pseuds/obfuscatress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m afraid some more valuable things than guns and watches are lost in the field.”</p><p>“Such as lives?” Q offers sardonically, “Or are you talking about information? Power switching hands in the form of money, memory sticks, and hard drives, perhaps? I know them all intimately, Bond, despite what you are willing to give me credit for.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Smercurial](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smercurial/gifts).



> My contribution to the 2015 00Q Reverse Bang challenge. This is a piece written for the amazing Ses Mercurial's artwork, who has been an absolute delight to collaborate with. You can find her on tumblr at smercurial.tumblr.com and on twitter @s_mercurial for more art in various fandoms.

**Original prompt by[Ses Mercurial](http://smercurial.tumblr.com/)**

* * *

 

 

“You cannot be serious,” Bond says, visibly upset for a change, and M thinks this might even be worth having his work interrupted.

“Pray tell, what has gotten you riled up today, 007.” He leans back in his chair and clasps his hands together in his lap, a gesture that isn’t quite as level as he’d like. Moneypenny was absolutely right; Bond’s expression of utter indignation _is_ hilarious and M smiles politely with his head tipping to one side.

It only serves to piss Bond off more, shoulders folding out even further to establish an authority he knows he doesn’t possess as he says, “With all due respect, Sir, you do realise this is a monumentally terrible idea. He’s bloody five inches tall, which is not only impossible, but absolutely ridiculous.”

“Actually, he is seven inches tall, not that it's of any significance to your life. Concerning your other… accusations, I’m afraid this decision was not mine to make, though I agree with my predecessor in hers.”

Bond looks taken aback by the mention, even if it’s fleeting, and M’s smile curls into something wide and self-indulgent. “I see you haven’t been informed this new Q was suggested and trained for his position by the late Major Boothroyd with the previous M's approval, despite what you may see as a physical shortcoming on Q’s part. Besides, you did not seem to have any complaints about his competence regarding your technical assistance with the incident surrounding Skyfall.”

He expects Bond to look put out, at least fake the shame, but no such luck today. No matter what Tanner says, Bond has been nothing more than a plain nuisance in the months since Skyfall. Mallory remembers the moment he’d seen Bond standing in the scattered debris of a still blazing house, shotgun raised at the helicopter he’d sent out and personally accompanied. And minutes later, Bond sat across him, trying to dissect his new boss with bloodshot eyes and a face covered in a sticky paste of soot and sweat. He wonders whether Bond relives those same moments staring absentmindedly at the painting over M’s desk or whether he’s got another film playing in his head.

The buzz of the intercom interrupts their respective reveries and Bond’s eyes snap back to M’s face to regard him with cold curiosity. Over the intercom, Moneypenny’s slightly distorted voice announces: “Max Denbigh is on line five for you, Sir. Do you want me to take a message?”

“No, I’ll take the call in just a moment,” M says, releases the speaker button, and returns to Bond for a final word.

“Sir, he’s barely the size of my _gun_.” His jaw clenches, tense at what he’ll know will be a dismissal.

Perhaps springing such a large change on Bond is a tad cruel, but then again, the man had taken off to Taiwan for two months without so much as a post-it note to account for his disappearance. For Mallory and the new Q those months had merely meant being thrown into the deep, disastrous end of an aftermath that was neither of their creation, trying to clean up the bloodshed of someone else’s sins while 007 was getting drunk somewhere under the glare of the sun.

“This is a new age, 007. Do try to keep an open mind.” M picks up his pen, returns to his paperwork, tries not to sigh under the strain of it all.

 

* * *

 

After thirty years, Q knows the tunnels like nothing else in the world, not that he’s had the pleasure of acquainting himself with much of the world outside them. He’s seen Vauxhall’s grand halls and every efficient corridor in passing, but he hasn't spent a long childhood wandering them. His entire formative years had been spent right here, digging around in dusty electrical appliances as the London sky kept pissing down rain relentlessly. Ironically enough, there seemed to be more life down here before MI6 had invaded the place, running around like a flock of headless chickens, the heavy cloak of death hanging over them. Tiring, really.

Q shoves at an equipment kit to get it to the edge of his workstation, forcing space into the centre of it. The downside of being small in a world made for common humans is the sheer size of even the smallest thing. He used to love this place for all the space. Now it's lost to the SIS. Everything in his office crowds him, corners him into the centre of his desk, leaving far too little space for all the things he needs on the oversized five foot podium they’d stuffed in the room to give him some leverage over his employees. To enjoy the benefits of being able to make eye contact with someone ten times his height. What a ridiculous notion.

He never had a petty pissing contest like this during his work in the obscurity of Boothroyd’s reign. All that had entailed was the ritual of afternoon tea they’d shared in a cluttered lab and stories of world class spies that saved their nation only for their efforts to be diluted down to which tech they had and hadn’t brought back. Then, Q worked on his own, always hidden in  the shadows where he was at once part of MI6 and yet far removed from it. Most of all, it was a place where he was seen for his abilities rather than his size. But that had all been destined to change sooner or later.

When it comes down to it, he is roughly the size of a teddy bear and it’ll never be quite enough to impress a full grown person, as clever as he may be. James Bond is just another reminder of what the entirety of MI6 must be thinking. As if he wasn’t painfully aware of his own size. There’s a railing around his desk, for crying out loud; all because he’s taken up a life in a society that isn’t built for him. For what it is worth, Q has managed to carve himself a space in a world he isn’t even supposed to exist in. That it’s a desk with a poison cufflink, two disassembled guns, and a bundle of copper wire huddled up to a laptop makes it all the sweeter.

He is startled in his self-reflection by a knock on his door. Q whips around to find Bond in the doorway, eyeing him with poorly concealed wariness. “Ah, 007. Please do come in,” Q says and forces an insincere smile. He catches himself mirroring some of the gestures he’s seen in M, a subconscious attempt at exhibiting the authority Bond isn’t willing to hand him at face value. In lieu of a clever remark, he merely says, “You are late,” expressionless in the same way Bond is.

“Apologies. I hope I haven’t kept you waiting,” 007 says, automated manners kicking in, though his eyes retain their flat, cataloging look that negates the meaning of his words.

“I was expecting you an hour ago, but luckily Tanner has informed me of your less than stellar timekeeping records.” Q notes Bond doesn’t look the slightest bit offended, “I’ve always been under the impression punctuality is rather the key to espionage.”

“And I thought one’s fingers ought to be the size of the keys on a keyboard to operate it.”

Q doesn’t glance back at his open laptop, though his gaze slips briefly from Bond’s. “And here I thought you were frank enough to bring up any concerns regarding my competence to my face, instead of the higher ups.”

At that Bond has the decency to look thrown off and, satisfied with the reaction he’s evoked, Q continues, “You know, M is a very open man, when he sees it fit, and I’m afraid bureaucratic politics don’t extend to _you_ within the office.”

“What a relief.”

“Yes, indeed. Now, I wouldn’t vouch for what he tells the PM about the way I run my department, but I’m not someone who does niceties. I can tell you I’ve been hired only for what I am capable of doing and nothing more.”

“And what exactly is that?” At that, Bond cocks head to the side, curiosity overtaking whatever pretense he’s put on for this particular power play.

“For one, tech. All the flimsy little things you’ve carelessly tossed into one river or another, the fibrillators and miniature grenades that have saved your arse every now and then for the past ten years. They’ve all been my signature, with a few exceptions, of course.”

“Of course,” Bond concedes to make up for the flash of surprise in his eyes.

Q files away the baffled expression to be dissected at a later point in time, scanning the way Bond scans him for now. “Major Geoffrey Boothroyd was a great man, but he was only human too and the finer aspects of this job are difficult for a man with large hands,” he says evenly, “Particularly considering the inevitable deterioration of motor skills in someone of his age. He loved cars and guns and I in turn loved the minuscule paraphernalia that tends to end up as collateral damage in the hands of people like you." 

There is no bitterness in his voice, no accusation, and not a trace of sentiment, nothing for Bond to grab onto, Q knows.

“I’m afraid some more valuable things than guns and watches are lost in the field.”

“Such as lives?” Q offers sardonically, “Or are you talking about information? Power switching hands in the form of money, memory sticks, and hard drives, perhaps? I know them all intimately, Bond, despite what you are willing to give me credit for.”

If Bond is thrown off balance, he doesn’t show it. Q lets it be and turns to the equipment kit he’s prepared hours ago already. He hands Bond an envelope, muttering, “Travel documentations and mission objectives along with shorthand manuals for our upgraded tech. Moneypenny will provide you with the full details of your cover.”

Bond takes the unsealed envelope, opens it briefly to take in two passports and plane tickets to Amman. Q opens a sleek, black box, to reveal a gun and a brand new, standard issue radio transmitter to a man, who looks just as underwhelmed as Q expects him to.

“Walther PPK/S 9mm short. There’s a micro-dermal sensor in the grip,” Q supplies as Bond lifts the weapon out of its case for inspection, “It’s been coded to your palm print so only you can fire it. Less of a random killing machine, more of a personal statement.”

Bond studies it for a long moment, running deft fingers along the barrel. He grips it for long enough to see the lights come on and blink their approval in LED green. He dips his head once, half a nod that might be directed at either Q or the gun. The weapon finds its place in the box in favour of Bond inspecting the unimpressive transmitter held between two of his fingers like fine china. “And this?”

“Standard issue radio transmitter. Activate it and it broadcasts your location: distress signal.”

The antenna jumps out with the experimental slide of a thumb against the dented grip and Q still can’t quite read Bond’s face. They both consider the blinking light for a brief moment, before Q says, “And that’s it.”

Again, that half nod, and Bond pushes the antenna back in its place with the mere gravity of his thumb. “A gun and a radio. Not exactly Christmas, is it?”

“What were you expecting? An exploding pen?” Q cocks his head to one side, a mocking smile creeping onto his face. “We don’t really go in for that sort of thing anymore,” he lies through his teeth, knowing he’s got a whole box stashed away in his lab.

Bond stares him down for a long moment and Q is half inclined to laugh in his face. He may be massive, even when they are face to face, but Q hasn’t succumbed to intimidation in years. Not when Bond doesn’t even know whom he’s looking at. “Good luck out there in the field,” Q says, voice softening with false comfort that he has no doubt unsettles Bond. He returns his attention to the newest Omega on his desk and Bond takes his leave.

“Oh, and 007,” Q breathes with a sudden afterthought, the sound of it freezing Bond in the doorframe. His head turns a fraction to meet Q’s gaze when he says, “please bring the equipment back in one piece.”

Bond inclines his head as an affirmation of at least having heard him, though Q doubts he’ll ever see the gun again. He supposes he’ll continue Boothroyd’s tally in the name of tradition. Thirty-six pages and counting.

 

* * *

 

The tunnels are a nightmare to store their servers in, so much so that Q considers putting on a suit and arguing over it up in the bureaucratic boardroom. Keeping out the damp is a non-stop battle and the equipment needed to dry out the stone extensions have the unfortunate effect of causing temporary overheating in some stretches of the tunnel. Then there’s the matter of wiring the whole thing, which is just another thing to piss off Q on an already monumentally bad Monday.

He walks along one of the metal bars behind the wall of servers, systematically shining a flashlight in search of a broken cable. If only they had a had a storage room - wide and open, cool, dry - he could organise this entire mess into racks someone else could check for malfunctions. As it is, he makes do.

“Sir,” says Hollcroft, a young decrypter, from the other side of the server puzzle, “you are being paged.”

“What on?”

“007.”

Q lets out a long suffering sigh, quiet enough to be muffled by the whirr of electronics around him. “Set him up with Central Branch,” he shouts and continues his trek down the wall in search of the broken cable.

The squeak of Hollcroft’s equipment cart follows with a delay as he mutters nervously into his mobile. Q listens with half an ear, though his attention lies elsewhere. He makes an inaudible ‘ah’ sound, when he finds the spot he’s been looking for.

“Sir,” Hollcroft interrupts again, “Bond’s sending in intel he needs analysed ASAP.”

“Who’s manning the floor?”

“Kavanaugh, sir. Summa is on the handler’s post.”

“Is Bond presently being shot at?”

“No, he’s escaped hostiles and has returned to a safe location.”

“Then I don’t see why Kavanaugh won’t do. 007 could do well with a little more patience.”

“Yes, sir.”

Hollcroft returns to his phone while Q inspects a frayed, charred cable overhead. He’s considering his options - _perhaps it would be easiest to remove the whole thing and reinstall it_ \-  when Hollcroft cuts in again, “Um, I’m sorry, sir, but Bond seems rather insistent.”

“Right.” Q pushes down his irritation and clambers out from behind the servers. Hollcroft’s already offering him an arm and, as much as Q hates relying on assistance, he lets himself be lifted onto the cart where his laptop lies in case of an emergency. Bloody Bond with his trust issues and petty games.

“Patch him through, will you?” Q gets into 007’s mission detail and makes sure he’s hooked into the secure comm lines. There’s a brief crackle and Q turns to Hollcroft to bark a string of orders on how to repair the server before the line stabilizes and Bond’s voice comes through.

“Q?”

“007, what might the matter be today?”

“I’ve been trying to reach you with intel I need decoded within the hour.”

“And it is in the capable hands of one of my employees at Central Branch, as they informed you. So, if you could kindly stop harassing my staff whilst they are trying to do their jobs, you would get it much faster.” Q automatically forces his voice to remain calm from years of training, a feature that clearly annoys Bond as he huffs at the other end of the line.

“Look, I don’t have time for your games. This is very sensitive material that is vital to my mission.”

“I’m aware of that, but I am not your personal minion, nor am I the only person in Q-Branch with appropriate skills and security clearance to handle it. You’re being unnecessarily petulant, 007; surely you have enough faith in MI6 to trust our top notch personnel. If you’ll excuse me, I have actual work to do in making sure our network stays, up, running, and secure for your further usage.” He hangs up on with a curt ‘goodbye’ before he has the time to mutter anything in response and turns back to a wide eyed Hollcroft holding a server in his hands.

“Well?” Q asks and raises a questioning eyebrow that seems to ground his employee, if the sudden flush of heat on his cheeks is anything to go by.

“I’ve switched out the cables, sir.”

Q nods and motions for Hollcroft to reposition the server in its original spot. “Thank you, Hollcroft. I’ll still check the surrounding lines. Please keep an eye on 007’s mission detail in the meantime. Let me know if Kavanaugh seems to be slacking off; wouldn’t want Bond’s intel to be late _now_.”

“Yes, sir.”

He climbs back into the mesh of wires and metal bars on his own account, grunting every time he hoists himself up towards the loose cable he needs to fix in place with a zip tie. He’s out of breath by the time he’s made it, a tad dizzy and still annoyed. “Hollcroft?” he shouts, hands already working on the zip tie by the time he figures out a petty enough punishment for Bond.

“Yes, sir?”

“Tell central to get Bond economy class return tickets, if he calls within the next half an hour.”

Hollcroft mutters an automated, “Yes, sir,” laced with poorly disguised amusement and Q smiles to himself.

 

* * *

 

Bond’s laptop pings at five to four with his intel and he decides, if  nothing else, Q is a cocky shit. He scans through the decrypted lists with annoyance slowly surfacing at the realisation that Q has effectively made him look a complete fool for his own enjoyment, perhaps even simply to make a point. Not that Bond would have expected anything less from him after the way Q worked with him through the mess surrounding Skyfall. To the point and always with a little something up his sleeve.

Bond sips at a lukewarm beer, grimacing at the grimy taste of it. He was certain that Q would turn out to be a menace to work with, but he hadn’t ever considered him properly as a colleague to be. For months he didn’t worry about MI6 or Q-Branch, not until he met Q in the flesh - tiny with the exact devilish smile Bond had imagined for him curving over his lips - and it seemed absurd he would be the same man Bond had gotten to know over a comm. Hypocritical to accuse him of anything now, he’s willing to admit that to himself.

His mobile rings and Bond picks it up, muttering his cover name into the speaker out of habit.

“007, this is your Quartermaster calling from a secure line.” Bond hums a term of understanding and notes Q’s voice doesn’t echo like it did when he called in earlier. “You received the intel form Kavanaugh,” he says and decidedly doesn’t make it a question.

“Yes.”

“There’s an additional attachment in the dispatch, do you see it?”

“Yes, I’m opening it now. What is it?”

“The original copy of the first blueprints of the building. The floor plans of the hotel we provided you with are the newest ones, dated after the 2011 renovation, but I think they may be incomplete.” He hesitates, clearing his throat only to lapse into silence.

“What exactly should I be looking at?” Bond asks with the two blueprints drawn up side by side. He notices several differences in a matter of seconds and scans the slanted words scribbled in the corner of one document.

“There used to be an underground tunnel and three passages behind the walls on the ground floor. Do you see them?”

“I do. They’ve not been marked in the later version, though.”

“Not only that, but the space hasn’t been accounted for, as far as I can tell. It’s just, the hotel lobby looks oddly square compared to the images on their website.”

“So, the structures are likely still there,” Bond supplies.

“I think they may be used as layover storage for drug trafficking. The volumes transported through that part of the city would be consistent with the size of the location.”

“Makes sense,” Bond agrees, “With all the commotion from the events hosted here on a near weekly basis, sneaking an extra car in or out would likely go unnoticed.”

“I’m not certain about this though.”

“I can verify on site.”

“No, you’re not to go. I thought you ought to know, but M’s orders are clear: capture the big fish. Top-down approach.”

Bond huffs. “American inheritance, and bloody idiotic at that. Men like Ghoul are useless, if M wants to catch anything beyond his district.”

“And who might you suggest would be of any use, if not him?” Q is skeptical, no doubt, but Bond gets the sense there’s genuine curiosity underlining the question. It occurs to him these might be the sort of politics Q hasn’t been exposed to in one of MI6 sterile training units. He’s not completely out of the loop though, because he adds, “Hypothetically speaking of course,” before Bond can conjure his first sentence.

“Well, _hypothetically speaking_ \- by which I mean experience - it’s the active middlemen that trigger the panicky chain reactions. Strike high enough and you disrupt lower level functionality, and disturb the self-satisfied lull of the higher ups. Ghoul is just a figurehead at the top, sucking up to someone who understands the big picture. There simply isn’t a volatile power vacuum at Ghoul’s level. Nothing to cause an avalanche, if he were to disappear, despite Head Office’s insistence that that’s how pyramid schemes work.”

“Technically they do.”

“Yet, in practise crime syndicates don’t work according to a formula.”

He expects a petty retort on the power of mathematics, something about variables, but Q only hums thoughtfully and returns to the matter at hand. “Either way, Ghoul’s company is due to arrive at half nine, though he himself is tied up in a meeting with his main supplier. Station T has two agents on the supplier, so there will be word on Ghoul’s schedule from the ground later. Stay close to the party, but do not initiate contact until Station T has got their hands on the supplier.”

“Yes, mother,” Bond grumbles and is delighted to discover Q makes the same displeased sound as M used to, an escaped little breath of sharp exasperation as he gathers his wits about him and says, “I think next time I will equip you with an explosive device and keep the detonator.”

Bond doesn’t laugh, though his eyes crinkle with laughter lines as he says, “I thought exploding pens didn’t come with the standard kit.”

“Who said it’d have to be a pen. You’d be surprised what you can do with an old fashioned radio transmitter.”

Bond glances at the unassuming device on his nightstand, smile freezing. “Q, what exactly can you do with a radio transmitter?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m assuming it’s automated to send a distress signal,” Bond reaches for the tiny thing and turns it over in his palm, “but could you change that to something that can be monitored subtly, something that doesn’t show up on common clearance databases?”

The moment of lighthearted joking slips away, Q sobering into a calculated wariness. “Technically? Yes.”

“I could slip it in with the drug shipment.”

“You’re suggesting we track the goods?” Q asks carefully, voice dropping further in volume.

“Yes, is that possible?”

“Of course, but it requires contact with the shipment, which you are strictly forbidden from doing per M’s orders.”

“It could fry bigger fish than Ghoul,” he tries.

“Bond-”

“Q.”

“No, look. I’m not about to go against direct orders to indulge you in one of your reckless impulses, Bond. Certainly not when you’ve not placed an ounce of faith in me-” Q stumbles  on whatever it is he meant to say, bitter accusation filling the silence. “Remember you’re not a rogue mercenary, who can do as he pleases,” Q says quietly, “You work for MI6 and are under strict orders from your superior and so am I.”

“Then why did you phone?” Bond interjects. “You _want_ me to do something about it.”

“Bond, quit it please. I didn’t mean to _imply_ anything. I’ve merely informed you of a security risk.” Q is terse and Bond hears his muffled voice talking to someone else in the background. Not orders exactly, but still professionally detached. “I’ve got to go,” Q mumbles by way of apology, “Good luck out there.”

He hangs up so quickly Bond doesn’t have the time to muster up a reply. He’s starting to see a pattern here: insults flung both ways to skirt around an issue of trust. For an instance he feels torn out of himself, still in the midst of their conversation, absentmindedly cradling his beer. The phone buzzes in his hand.

_Give me a license plate number for their transport_

_before Ghoul shows and I’ll see what I can do. –Q_

He stares at the words in disbelief, a lifeline as good as any. He memorises the number – not one of Six’s – and deletes the message to get ready for the night’s gala.

 

* * *

 

That Ghoul isn’t about to go down without a fight and that Bond holds the record for disaster prone missions are both known facts to Q, but he still doesn’t expect one man to tip the other out of a window on the third floor. He recognizes the sound of glass breaking and holds his breath in the all too long silence before the inevitable thud of impact, two bodies hitting the ground with a muffled ‘oof’ sounding in his ear. He swears he can feel his heartbeat all the way in his toes from how tense his body is.

Tanner is the first to tear himself from the delicate state of shock, feverishly asking, “007, please report. What is your status?”

“I’ve got him,” Bond says, voice hoarse. The world falls back into place, everything coming back into focus as mission support goes into a frenzy. He coughs and Q can hear Bond’s limbs scraping against the pebbled path behind the bushes in the back garden of the hotel as he drags Ghoul’s body out of sight.

“Is he still alive?”

A pause, to find a pulse or its absence. “Yes. Might want to dispatch med evac, though,” Bond says, voice cracking on the odd word.

“On it,” Q says fingers racing across the keyboard, “ETA 3 minutes.”

“Understood.” Bond coughs again, wheezing dangerously. Q would worry, but Tanner comes up on another private line mumbling, “It seems Bond insists on being the personified version of a near death experience,” and he croaks out a nervous laugh.

 

* * *

 

As it turns out, James Bond is one of those select few individuals that manage to look alive even when they’re dangerously close to slipping into a coma. Q notes he’s more on the side of peacefully asleep than severely injured despite the cluster of bruises on the left half of his face. The illusion lasts for a short two minutes until Bond stirs with a pained expression screwing up his face.

He cracks an eye open experimentally, gaze falling on Tanner at the foot of the bed. “You’ve finally decided to come ‘round then.”

Bond opens his mouth to say something that comes out as a pitiful croak. He tries again and this time his voice comes out hoarse and slurred, tongue dragging from the weight of heavy analgesics. “How long?”

“Five days."

“The headache seems appropriate enough.” He aims for a smirk, but it tips into a grimace met by Tanner’s strange smile of sympathy.

He moves to pour Bond a cup of water, handing it over without even looking at Bond. Q gets the sense they’re playing out an old script like they’ve met in the all-encompassing stench of rubbing alcohol a thousand times over. “Would you like a straw?” Tanner asks, already bending one as though he knows the answer.

Only, Bond shakes his head, though Tanner looks so unfazed Q has to wonder if this isn’t the way it ought to play out. The straw ends up abandoned on the overbed, where Q is set up with his tablet to watch the scene unfold and wonder what part he’s meant to play. He watches Bond hoist himself up carefully, sticking his head forward towards the edge of the cup unsuccessfully while Tanner looks on nonchalantly.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Q exclaims, thinking MI6 is filled with oversized children despite everything, and they dare question _him_. He hops off the table with the straw in one hand and drops onto Bond’s bed, careful to avoid actually hitting the man. Bond glares at him - eyes going out of focus at Q’s proximity - as he shoves the plastic straw into his drink and holds it to Bond’s mouth. He takes the straw between his teeth and Q grumbles a sarcastic ‘you’re welcome’.

“If we could get on with it, then,” he says to Tanner, because they really do have better things to do than passive aggressively stare at one another.

“Right,” Tanner says by way of agreement, “For one we’ve got Ghoul. Though, seeing as he’s in twice as bad shape as you, he hasn’t said much. You fractured six of his bones, one of which pierced his spleen, by the way-”

Bond gives up on sullenly sucking water through the straw to grumble, “He’s the one, who insisted on crashing through the window.”

“Ah, yes, M isn’t too pleased about the gossip surrounding _that_ , but you’ve done considerably worse on several occasions.” Tanner’s face contorts into one of his contemplative frowns of disappointment and Q can only roll his eyes at how much of an understatement Tanner’s words are. “Anyway” his expression morphs from resigned to something more soberly professional, “ _Q_ and I are here, because more than anything M is pissed about the unauthorised plan the two of you decided to hatch out mid-mission.”

Bond raises a curious eyebrow, turning his head towards Q, as if to ask ‘how’d that turn out’. “Was I right?”

Q crosses his arms in defence for the smug look he knows Bond will adopt the moment he says, “It’s still unraveling, but the reach of that lead alone is quite remarkable.”

“Which, may I say,” Tanner cuts in, “is the only reason M is not absolutely furious and you retain your testicles for another day. He’ll nevertheless want a word with the both of you.”

“Ah, so you’re here to straighten out the story,” Bond remarks to Q like he’s only now decided on his presence.

Q shifts his weight uncomfortably, because it isn’t exactly a lie even though he is genuinely worried for Bond. Not that _that_ would make any better an excuse, so Q stays quiet and lets Tanner continue.

“I do recommend you sort out your ‘story’ by the time M deems you fit for an audience. He’s put you on ten weeks of mandatory leave, the duration of which you are grounded for.”

“That is just cruel.”

“You have two floating ribs, a broken forearm and a sprained ankle. Make a break for it, if you want to, but don’t be surprised, if you die trying,” Q mutters.

Bond doesn’t tell him he’s had worse, because they both know Q’s seen his full medical records. Instead, he says, “Ten weeks is a little excessive.”

“You’re not twenty anymore. If you grow bored, you could always make an attempt at getting a permanent residence. Storage units are rather expensive. Or perhaps help out in filing the paperwork for all you missing tech; I’m sure Q-Branch would much appreciate it,” Tanner suggests.

Q pulls a face, mildly horrified at the thought of Bond doing actual paperwork and no less in his territory. “That won’t be necessary, thank you very much. Though you’ll understand, given your track record, we will have to keep an eye on you in your absence.”

“Naturally.” Bond stares impassively past him at Tanner, which only makes the other man force a smile. “Another chip or what is it this time around?”

“The Quartermaster seems to have enough faith in you to go with a wristband.”

“It’s locked in place, of course. Additionally it is waterproof, resistant to heat up to 300 degrees, and programmed to send out an alert, if you attempt to remove it,” Q adds at the look Bond shoots him.

“Does it at least tell the time?”

“I’m afraid not.” He smiles, crooked and real for once as he hears Tanner snort. Q fishes the gadget from the overbed. “Your arm please?”

Bond extends the arm that is not in a cast and Q loops the tracker around it, pulling at the tab until it’s snugly pressed against Bond’s skin. He feels the jump of Bond’s pulse under the skin. On the overbed, his tablet pings and lights up with a notification of a newly detected vital signal.

“Oh, I forgot to mention the device has a remotely controlled electric shock feature.”

“Of course it bloody does.”

 

* * *

 

Bond goes quietly three days later, driven by Moneypenny without a word of complaint to or about M. His tracking device beeps as soon as he’s out of the courtyard, blue dot popping up on London Station’s general surveillance system.

On the third floor of the Service’s temporary building, M glances at the notification on his computer. “Seems your device works,” he states flatly.

“Not exactly a piece of technology requiring extensive engineering, sir,” Q offers.

M’s face twists into one of his suffering smiles as he says, “If it keeps 007 put, I don’t care whether it’s a rock or a particle accelerator. Now, you haven’t come to discuss Bond. Tanner noted you filed for a motion to relocate Q-Branch.”

“I did, sir.”


	2. Chapter 2

 

The move is a gradual three week process M gives his official approval for three weeks later, on the first of March. It starts with the non-essentials, R&D being the first to go with Repairs following shortly, while Q sorts out the nightmare that is the server lined tunnels. It all goes eventually, leaving the bunker network behind in much the same state of abandon as Q has known it since his early years. He doesn’t have time to dwell on it.

He’s busy setting up shop further down the Thames in a series of lofty stone armories and refectories abandoned decades ago. It’s all a bit cluttered and damp, tangles of wires being routed hastily in an attempt to get the whole system up and running in time for the next big mission.

To top it all off, Bond decides to show up unannounced five weeks into his leave, arm still in a sling and Tanner in tow. Q wonders whether it’s worth getting off his storage shelves. “007,” he says with a raised eyebrow, “I wasn’t aware you were due here today.”

“He’s not,” Tanner says and Bond’s face twitches into an impassive smile. “Do you have the revised DGSE material for M?”

“Yes, I went through it last night, so he can pass it back to Boer without delay.”

Tanner nods, takes the stack of papers wrapped in two padded envelopes, and turns to Bond. “I trust you can see yourself out,” a curt nod from the agent and Tanner returns to Q, “I’ll leave you two to it then.”

“Thank you, Tanner.” Bond nods again and watches Tanner pass him on his way to the car lift before he steps towards Q’s desk. “Your monitoring device has been malfunctioning,” he says and tugs at a coat sleeve to show it’s still in place and functional before Q can ask.

“What seems to be the problem?” Q schools his face, supposing he must seem affronted, judging by the way Bond keeps his distance.

“Well, either you’ve been shocking me for fun at two forty-six every morning, or...” Bond is moving now, dynamic and unnerving. He tugs off his gloves and stuffs them into his coat pockets.

“As much of a menace as you are, I can’t confess to deliberately electrocuting you nightly. I don’t know about you, but I take my pleasures elsewhere.” Q points Bond to his desk and takes the stairs to the higher shelves where he keeps a box of tech preceding his prototypes. He rummages through it and finds the old, prison issue ankle monitors.

“I’m afraid it’s back to this,” he says apologetically, when he climbs his desk. Q is still a whole three feet lower than Bond, who holds out his arm with his eyes cast down at him. “Why don’t you take a seat, 007?” he suggests, motioning towards a chair that is supposedly his.

Bond sits, offers up his arm again, and asks, “Does it make you uncomfortable?”

“What?”

“The height of your co-workers.”

“No.” He doesn’t consider his answer, having been asked the question too many times to even consider it anymore, though Bond doesn’t seem convinced by the decision he’s made. “I won’t lie, I do prefer being among my own kind, but who likes working with people twelve times their own height?”

“Fair enough.”

Q slides the surveillance monitor off Bond’s arm and frowns at a row of red burn marks. “I always did suspect you were a tad masochistic, stubborn, and a distrustful twit at the least, but this is a bit much even for you. Why didn’t you come in earlier?”

“Moneypenny threatened to use her stilettos in a rather imprudent manner, if I didn’t hand in my paperwork on time. You get the gist?”

“I do, and I have to admire her for the choice of punishment; it seems to have kept you at bay.” Q finds a banged up tube of Bepanthen for Bond, and asks, “What drove you to try your luck at last?”

“M wanted that word with me.”

“Still not pleased, I reckon.”

“Apparently Whitehall is rather impressed you managed to track Ghoul’s network’s connections all the way to their UK terminal, which in turn favours M and further me.”

“Nice to see impromptu defenestration saved you from the worst of his wrath. I got a forty minute lecture when he found out I’d even considered helping you.”

“He can’t have been too mad, considering he signed off on this so quickly,” Bond gestures vaguely at the chaos around them and Q sweeps his workshop with a superficial glance.

“We’re spacious and come with a lot of very specific requirements for an effective workspace. I suspect the segregation from MI6’s main body is more a testament to the advantage it puts M at in the talks for the new security hub they’ve got in the plans than his particular affinity for Q-Branch.” He falls silent, and into a tensionless stare with Bond.

“Tanner did mention a merge with MI5 might be on the table. But there has been talk before and nothing has ever come of it.”

“Whatever is happening now, it’s all very hush hush. All I’ve heard is that M’s been impossible to reach, off site upwards of two weeks according to Boer. But who knows?” Q shrugs and fidgets with the ankle monitor for a moment. “Your leg, please.”

Bond lifts a polished shoe against the edge of Q’s desk and Q notes begrudgingly the mere foot is almost as tall as him. He wraps the ankle monitor around Bond’s leg and fixes the strap in place. “This doesn’t monitor your vitals, so don’t die of a drinking binge; no one will find you in time. It also shouldn’t shock you, though it’ll still set off an alarm-”

“I know the drill.”

“Yes, well, you would,” Q remarks and something flashes in Bond’s eyes. “You’re free to go, unless you had something else.”

“No, I did not.” Bond returns his leg to the ground and makes a move for his gloves on the edge of Q’s desk. “Except, I believe it would be in order to thank you.”

Q cocks an inquisitive eyebrow.

“For putting yourself on the line not only in a crisis situation, but trusting me in Amman. It’s not exactly common conduct among MI6 personnel. At least not for my sake.”

_Oh._ He wasn’t quite expecting that. “I was just doing my job,” Q insists, “even if by unconventional means. This is the Secret Service, after all.”

“Goes to show an ounce of trust doesn’t hurt either way.”

“What a brave attempt at a non-apology for false first impressions,” Q jokes, mirroring Bond’s lopsided smirk. “Anyway, I’ve got a Branch to run and I’m sure you’ve got a very exciting bottle of gin waiting in your kitchen.”

“Only the finest vermouth, actually.” Bond steps away from the desk and mockingly salutes him. Q watches as he takes off, the hem of his trouser leg brushing against the ankle monitor. Something about the sheer confidence in his gait sets Q on edge, as though he can sense the myriad of Bond’s mischievous thoughts.

“Try not to get in trouble, 007,” Q calls after him in all seriousness.

 

* * *

 

In the wake of the losses of Skyfall, with the gain of his new position, Q’s life has changed to a degree he can’t always wrap his head around. He forgets about the turmoil most days, too caught up in doing his part in keeping the world from going up in flames. But somedays it all slows dangerously and in the spare minutes spent over a mug of tea he notices the purple taint under Tanner’s eyes and the stiffness of his own shoulders, an ever lurking wariness.

“So, there’s really going to be a merge then?” Q asks carefully, pouring a packet of sugar over the rim of his mug.

“That’s the plan. I hear the deal is only missing the PM’s signature.” Tanner sighs and scrubs a hands over his face. It’s getting late, past eleven on a night concluding weeks of intensive negotiations. “I don’t have a good feeling about this at all. There were too many political players at that table.”

“Isn’t that the status quo for talks like these?”

“Something about it was off. I can’t place it. I mean, people change sides all the time, but the particular split of votes for this decision was unique to say the least.”

“It is a rather extraordinary matter,” Q says, “It’s got nothing to do with preset political values. I imagine it’s caused quite a bit of tension.”

Tanner hums in agreement and stares morosely into his tea. Q lets him think it through, used to dealing with the quieter minds in the Service. He scoops a helping of tea into a thimble and cradles the warm metal in his hands.

“Who knows what this means for any of us in the long run,” Tanner says eventually. “How have you been holding out down here?”

“Professionally speaking, better than ever. It’s been blissfully slow during the transition.”

“Sure that’s not just thanks to Bond being off the field?” He flashes a shit eating grin and Q laughs out loud, voice resonating in the empty space.

On nights like these he’s glad to have set up his permanent workstation with R&D, where it gets quiet after the afternoon shift clears out. As much as he enjoys the quiet and his privacy, Q is keenly aware of how much he misses having a social life that doesn’t involve bickering with agents.

Tanner takes a long sip of his drink and yawns. “I shouldn’t be having tea at this hour. The missus is going to be mad, if I pace the living room into the wee hours.”

“I’ve got a bottle of hard liquor at the courtesy of 004 in my desk cabinet if you’d prefer that. ”

He raises an inquisitive eyebrow and it’s Q’s turn to sport a shit eating grin. Tanner mumbles something under his breath but gets up to fetch the bottle anyway. Q drinks the rest of his tea and looks around the empty tabletops and half finished cars resting under sheets in neat rows. On the edge of the desk his phone lights up and he scoots over to see a string of familiar numbers not saved in his contacts. That Bond would text him doesn’t surprise Q, after all, he is a nuisance at best. On the other hand, Bond memorising _and_ recalling his phone number weeks after lapsing into a brief coma is astounding.

“Something up?” Tanner asks, startling him into a scramble to turn the screen off.

“Just my mother, nothing special,” Q blurts with a flush of embarrassment warming his skin under the turtleneck that obscures it from sight. Tanner, ever so polite, pours him the first shot into the thimble.

“How is she?”

“My mother?” Q blinks at him in surprise, forgetting some common people not only know of Q’s kind but understand them to be human too. Tanner looks at him expectantly and Q shrugs. “Well enough, I suppose. Haven’t seen much of her lately, what with Bond keeping the entity of MI6 on our toes.”

Tanner snorts, pouring a healthy helping of liquor into his tea mug. “You he’s never going to become any less time consuming, if you don’t draw a clear boundary.”

“I have, but when it’s coming from someone like me everything takes a little longer to sink in.”

“Yes, and that isn’t deal,” Tanner concedes with the same sympathy Q imagines he directs at M every time the PM goes on a shouting spree up on the top floor, “but perhaps you shouldn’t tell him to bugger off and then help him bring down an entire drug cartel against orders from your superior.”

“That was kind of my idea, actually,” Q admits. He’s faced with a look of disbelief, because Bond had taken most of the blame leaving Q to concede to helping him with the technical execution. Of course he wasn’t about to let M know Bond was lying and get his agent in even more trouble, even if that meant lying to Tanner by proxy.

“Why would he bail you out?”

“Well, what do I know? I’ve known him in passing for a few months and all he’s done so far is get me in trouble and hurl insults at me. Haven’t exactly been arsed to dissect his psyche past the fact that he’s got severe trust issues and a well manifested god complex.”

“Doesn’t seem to pose much of a problem,” Tanner says, eyebrows rising. He takes a healthy gulp of whiskey and adds, “If he’s willing to defend you to M, he must like you.”

“Yes, right,” Q groans and rolls his eyes, “that’s also why he stormed into M’s office throwing a hissy fit over my size not a month ago.”

“He does that about a lot of things, actually. The point is: he doesn’t go back on his instincts this quickly. Do you know how many people in this building he trusts even remotely?”

“Is none too harsh an answer?” Q asks and downs his remaining message. He thinks of the message on his phone, mocking him as he speaks.

“In my time in office, I’ve only seen him take like this to Eve Moneypenny and she shot him for it. Boothroyd, even in all his time, got only a passive aggressively antagonistic working relationship out of Bond.”

Q thinks of the tally, notes scribbled in the back of one notebook or the other with pre-prepared snark to toss around in quick fire banter over an exploding watch, and it’s all he really knows of Bond besides a shamefully sparse file for someone of his rank and experience. “Bill, he stuck his head out for me one time. It’s not unheard of.”

“All I’m saying is don’t be surprised if he calls you at three am asking you to rifle through a set of seemingly arbitrary files. Men like him, the kind that live in the shadows and work for the light, they gravitate for borderline personalities.”

“I can look out for myself,” Q says with a smile, “Big boy and all that.”

His friend slips into a foolish grin, the kind for loose-collared, half-drunken nights in the arse of the British Secret Service. Tanner’s glee fades into a story about Andrewartha that has Q laughing without reserve. It’s the sort of evenings he’s used to by now.

Tanner leaves sometime after midnight, cheeks glowing a friendly red from the whiskey and Q feels the quiet solitude of his workshop seep back into his bones as the churn of the lift fades out overhead. Somewhere four halls North, nightshift works to keep his empire running. He’s already dragged himself to the stairs beside his desk to retire to his quarters before he remembers his phone and with it Bond.

For a moment he considers leaving it alone - Bond isn’t going to get himself killed in London, Q tells himself - but he’s compelled to see, one part worry and another irredeemable curiosity. All he finds is a string of numbers with the words ‘You reinstated my Bank of England credit card?’ and Q has to imagine the offence behind them.

He shakes his head in amusement, wondering how hard Bond had to try to recall his number for that one line. “Record message reply,” Q instructs his phone, “It’s called reprocessing. Do you know what a pain in the arse it is to fabricate a trail for your bank account?”

He’s not involved on a personal level, Q insists even as he saves the number with a name.

 

* * *

 

Despite the constant, streamlined chaos that surrounds MI6, the world falls into a lapse every morning just before seven. It’s a small mercy, but Q takes what he’s given and shoves his feet into his warmest boots and his arms into a winter coat to eat breakfast outside. He sets down his mobile and takes a seat against the wall of the canal to enjoy the view of the wide stretching mass of the Thames flowing along quietly in the earliest light of day.

He’s not supposed to be outside on his own, but as much as Q is willing to devote himself to MI6 and a life under constant surveillance, he’ll always indulge himself in a glimpse of the vast world all on his own. _Speaking of the devil_ , he thinks, phone going off with Moneypenny’s custom alert. Q takes the time to finish his tea and brush the crumbs off his shirt before giving into the endless vortex of his inbox.

 

 

 

> _From: E. Moneypenny_
> 
> _To: Q_
> 
> _Subject: Next week’s schedule URGENT_
> 
>  
> 
> _Q,_
> 
> _008 briefing Tue, 003 scheduled to return Wed. Istanbul negotiations pushed by one week, run intel & standby. _ _007 originally requested for check-up meeting Mon, though has now been deferred to Thu due to Whitehall hearing._ _P_ _lease get a hold of him or Sanders will be fired._
> 
> _-MP_
> 
>  
> 
> _p.s. Lunch on Monday? Tanner also at Whitehall hearing, so sushi is an option._

 

Q sighs and contemplates writing an e-mail back, though he suspects Moneypenny won’t let him get out of this. He makes a voice memo for himself about the briefings before he calls her.

“Moneypenny.”

“It’s me,” he says dumbly and can practically hear her eye roll, when she says, “Q, I can read a display.”

“What a relief. Mind teaching that to the kids over at surveillance? There’s a reason I outsourced Bond.”

“There’s a reason he hasn’t been on their list in years,” she reminds him, not for the first time much to Q’s dismay.

“Moneypenny-”

“Q. You wouldn’t want some poor innocent cubicle slave to be out of a job because of Bond; I know you well enough, don’t even try.”

“Surely by now there has to be a support group for people, who’ve lost their jobs thanks to his antics.”

“Q.”

“Moneypenny,” he says, knowing he’s already lost no matter what he says now. She lets him smoulder in the silence and she’d be at it for years, shuffling papers in the background, if it weren’t for Q caving in. “This isn’t in my contract, you know.”

“I know. I’ll pay for lunch.”

“I only eat one piece, anyway!”

“Okay, how about I’ll talk to Bond about the next mission brief for you once he gets back?”

Q grumbles, “I swear, if you tell him I put you up to it, I’ll make sure your Netflix account never works again,” but agrees anyway, because the less he’s got to deal with Bond the better. The man is obnoxious enough over text.

Eve makes a promise of miso soup before she whispers a hasty goodbye, some American speaking up in the background. Q considers his phone for a moment, stares out over the river eastwards, where the sun is crawling over the horizon.

_Best get it over with_ , he decides. The phone rings five times with the sound of a foreign network and, when Bond finally picks up, it’s with a groggy ‘hello’.

“I am going to say good morning, because that is what it’s supposed to be for you right now. Where are you?”

“Notting Hill.” His voice is steadier already, wits gathering about like an armour.

“You’re such a filthy liar,” Q says. “If Moneypenny got a hold of you, she’d kick the living lights out of you for agonising some poor bloke in surveillance.”

“Surveillance? Why are they one me; I’m under Q-Branch.”

“Not anymore. I outsourced you.” Q can’t help the pride slipping into his voice or the satisfaction he gets from Bond’s cut off hum. It’s a mix of surprise and annoyance, a delight if one were to ask Q. “You didn’t honestly think I’d agree to babysitting someone with your track record?”

“No one needs to ‘babysit’ me, despite Mallory’s persistence on that matter.”

Bond says it with such distaste Q warrants a laugh, brief like water sloshing over the edge at an unexpected disturbance. Q spills, “Now you’re most certainly lying. I could lay out the reports of your offences back to back and they’d stretch out for miles. You know Boothroyd used to keep a tally of the tech you lost.”

“I imagine that is a grievous account, indeed, but it isn’t a testament to any personal failings.”

“It’s a five figure number, Bond. Forgive me for failing to see professionalism as a descriptor of your conduct over the years.”

“Right.” His voice is a hoarse scratch followed by silence. Someone lets out a joyous scream wherever he is, though the voice is disembodied like it’s carrying up from a street. “I suppose there’s no point in trying to redeem myself in your eyes then.”

“Why _mine_?”

“Why not yours?” Bond says it playfully, ever the tease, and yet he leaves something substantial out. It trips Q up in his words, voice catching in his throat.

“The sunrise over the Thames,” Q says eventually, “is beautiful. You should see.”

He imagines concern beside the surprise in Bond’s voice when he mutters, “You’re outside?”

“Officially? No. But that is water you hear.” Q sighs with all the weight of a stressful night.  Over the stretch of the river that seems as large as an ocean to him, the sun crowns in a golden flare of morning glory. “There’s an old tube in the wall - emergency exit - that I use to sneak out sometimes. Even an indoor world may be impressively large to someone like me, but it gets oppressive nonetheless.”

“Have you ever been outside of London?”

He makes a dissenting sound in the back of his throat. “About as often as you’ve visited the moon, I reckon.”

“A simple ‘no’ wouldn’t suffice?”

“No.” A smile plays across Q’s face watching the quiet flow of the water. _Get a hold of yourself_ , he thinks despite how much he doesn’t want to. “Bond-”

“Q.”

“This isn’t a social call,” he says and Bond cuts in with, “Oh no? And here I thought you liked me for me, not my shiny gun.”

“ _My_ gun,” Q corrects him. “While we’re at it: do return it, when you get back. The reason I called is that M is going to want to see you bright and early on Thursday morning. For your own sake I suggest you show up.”

“I will.”

“Good. That’s all.”

“Q,” Bond hurries to say before the other hangs up on him.

“Yes?”

“Thank you for letting me know.”

“Moneypenny _is_ blackmailing me, you know.”

“I know.”

Q doesn’t know which one of them hangs up, if either, as he sits in the warm caress of the morning sun relishing a moment of blissful peace.

 

* * *

 

“Christ, if that meeting would have lasted for five more minutes-” Q growls, “You would think the SIS would have weeded out bigots the likes of Andrewartha by now.”

“The twenty-first century isn’t all it’s made up to be,” Moneypenny remarks, smirk curving over her lips out of habit. Q hums his agreement and Moneypenny adds, “That can be fixed you know.”

“I’ve no interest in filing a formal complaint. I’d mess with the power on his floor, but unfortunately they rather rely on being hooked up to the grid 24/7 and I’m not petty enough to pursue a personal vendetta.” Q clings to the strap of his laptop case, seasick from the sway of Moneypenny sashaying on her stilettos. He risks a glance down to the ground and immediately leans back into her chest with regret. This is just yet another reason to loathe exec meetings.

Moneypenny steps into an empty elevator, shielding Q with one hand from seeing through the glass floor. “Who said you’d have to do the dirty work? Don’t tell anyone, but I’ve had James beat someone up before as a favour.”

“Jesus, Moneypenny,” Q says with feigned horror, “Why would you, when you’re perfectly adept to do so yourself?”

She grins at the doors. “I knew there was a reason I loved you,” she says, “but sometimes a girl likes to kick back and watch the world run itself.”

“Well, I’m not asking my _agent_ to get into a brawl with MI6 executive staff. Bond isn’t my friend and I don’t need anyone saving me.”

“He tries to be yours for what it’s worth.”

“Moneypenny, I don’t know what you’re getting at,” Q says tersely. “I’ve given him incentive to behave, that is all. People seem to forget he does know how to play nice.”

“Q, don’t be a fool. James Bond doesn’t care about the handbook; he cares about _people_ and you seem to be one of the few he trusts.” They arrive in his quarters and Moneypenny catalogues the room before she goes on. “You know that isn’t a bad thing, right? Frustrating at times, yes, but Bond’s trust is valuable.”

“I was rather under the impression it’s a death sentence,” he says without feeling. Q wishes Moneypenny would let it go. He’s got no desire to discuss James Bond’s alliances, or feelings for that matter, and certainly not in relation to himself.

“All I’m saying is he’s worth examining with care. James Bond does not take matters like these lightly. I would know; I’ve shot him.”

She doesn’t press the matter any further than that and deposits Q and his laptop on his desk. “Come up to HQ for lunch on Thursday?”

“Fine, but only if you promise not to pester me about a single one of the double-oh agents.”

“You’re no fun.”

“Never claimed to be.”

 

* * *

 

Bond sends him a picture of a dusty, burning hot sunrise at half four the next morning. Q glares at the screen with tired eyes, still awake from the previous work day bleeding into the next. He decidedly doesn’t think of Bond for the next three hours he spends in the heart of the man’s Aston Martin in the back of his workshop. At least that is what Q tells himself.

 

* * *

 

It shouldn’t surprise Q that Moneypenny is stuck in a meeting on Thursday with James Bond conveniently lurking at her desk. “Looks like Miss Moneypenny is a popular lady in the service,” Q says when Bond sits down in her chair to wait.

“Those who rule an empire of questionable origin often are. The real question is: what has she got on you?”

Q laughs, but keeps it brief and deliberately haughty to say, “The conclusions you jump to. Moneypenny and I are two great minds, why wouldn’t we simply _get along_ ?” He almost says _‘But you wouldn’t know what that means, now would you?’_ but manages to bite his tongue the very last second. He doubts what’s left unsaid is lost on Bond. What Q asks instead is: “What did you do to your ankle monitor?”

“Nothing,” Bond says innocently, rolling with the change of topic. He leans back in Moneypenny's chair and props his feet up on her desk to subtly reveal the absence of the monitor around his ankle. “I never left the country.”

Q’s retort dies on his tongue when Andrewartha walks in with a scabbing split lip and a swollen black eye. He darts his eyes from Q to Bond and back again before he asks, “Is Miss Moneypenny here?”

“Obviously not,” Bond sneers, “May I help you instead?”

Q shoots him a warning look and replies, “I’m afraid she’s caught up in a meeting.”

Another look back and forth, the pupil in Andrewartha’s almost swollen shut eye veering strangely, and Q has to wonder what the hell happened to his face. “I think I’ll come back later. Gentlemen,” he excuses himself and Q turns to Bond.

“Please tell me you aren’t responsible for that.”

“Your distrust wounds me, Quartermaster. I hear he got into a bar fight getting a drink after work. Not a very popular man in or out of the office.” Bond puts on a charming smile that’s the exact kind Q has learned to dismiss as a lie. He fishes a little bag out of his pocket and offers it to Q. “I asked Moneypenny if there was anything I could do to repay your kindness and she gave me a few pointers, including this tea.”

Q blinks at him, thinking he must be going insane, because James Bond cannot possibly be bringing him gifts and beating up people for him. “Thank you,” Q says hesitantly. It’s fine tea, no doubt bought from a market in Cairo or a like city, and Q hates the fact that he loves the thought of it. “You know, I have to say, between Moneypenny and you, I rather feel like I’ve accidentally stumbled into the mob.”

Bond makes an ‘ _oh_ ’ sound - more delighted than pleased, Q finds - and leans forward, “Does that mean you could be coerced into dinner?”

“Bond-”

“It doesn’t have to be anything special. I’ll take chinese at your desk after hours.”

“And they say romance is dead.”

“Is that a ‘yes’ then?”

“Yes.” Q doesn’t smile, but he gets the sense Bond can sense his satisfaction regardless. The arbitrary little things they cling to, he thinks, as Moneypenny walks in with her lipstick stained vanilla latte and her custom smirk.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One day I will write something where these two actually get together instead of leaving ambiguous dinner invites hanging out in the open, but today is not that day. One day I'll also stop being a cliché romantic, but that is also not today.
> 
> Massive thanks to Ses Mercurial, my artist, for being such a patient partner to work with. I couldn't have wished for anyone better. Thank you to MinMu for hosting this years 00Q Reverse Bang. None of this would would have possible without someone coordinating all of us. On that note, go check out the other works created as a part of this project. There's some pretty amazing stuff on offer.


End file.
